Culture

Haiku 54

Photo by Andrew Hamlin. CC-BY 4.0.

We sleep soon,
each other’s furnace…
my chin at her ear

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Her bottom,
cupped in my hands…
what to whisper next?

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Jonquil, jonquil!
Dance behind my eyelids…
brush my stubble

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She’s dying…
cream-and-brown ducks
camp in the mud

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Rain
meets the ringing in my ears…
sparkling counterpoint

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Empty mirror
against the white brick wall…
burro’s footfall

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Burro,
asleep on its feet…
slumped haystack

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February…
mashed cockroach
still struggles to crawl

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My old friend,
how tenderly he sleeps
in the ripped chair

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February…
four ducks float past
the bridgekeeper’s hut

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February:
steam from my taco…
silence

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February…
cardboard box afire
by the burger stand

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February…
broom scrapes
on dry snow

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Sailor suit,
sailor’s roof…
salt and sand

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She shuts the hutch,
dawn makes up its mind…
dreaming chickens

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February:
scud over crescent moon…
last wick flickers

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My mental breakdown
composed, this time,
of littered Kleenex

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February…
pigeons resettle, then,
on the spilled popcorn

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Something waits
for that dew not yet dried…
grass tips

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“MacArthur Park”
eighteen minutes long…
shaving foam thick down the drain

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(by the time)
the old man shouts from a dream
(our train stops)

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And to think I once watched
two blackbirds
north past the sunset

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Autumn sun
attracts no notice…
freed from those mountains

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February…
crow paces through a puddle
in the parking lot

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February…
rain taps once at the window,
reminding

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